


Don't Ask (Don't Tell)

by Devilc



Category: Generation Kill, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: AU, Cross-Generation Relationship, Crossover, Cunnilingus, F/M, Future Fic, Military, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-10
Updated: 2010-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no greater rush than rolling the bones with death, and as the lone survivors of a mission gone pear-shaped, Brad Colbert and Savannah Weaver deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Ask (Don't Tell)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle 10](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html). Prompt is -- _Generation Kill/Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Brad Colbert/Savannah Weaver, future, Iceman, watch, darkness, desert_ Originally posted [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/30726.html?view=4315910#cmt4315910), and slightly tweaked since.

  
Once upon a time _this_ \-- officer/solder, 40something man/19 year old woman -- would've mattered.

But this is a different future from that future.

What Savannah knows right now is they've both gotten out alive and he's got the need-shakes as bad she does, and if she hesitates too long, Brad Colbert will vanish and her Captain, the Iceman, will come back and they will both spend a long, cold, achy-itchy night out here in the desert unless they opt for a combat jack/jill and frankly, given the size of this little cave? It'd be no different, really, from fucking.

She wrestles him down in the near darkness as the last light of the setting sun flickers through the entrance and pounces him with a kiss and when he tries to say something, she near snarls, "Shut up," at him, only remembering a breath later to tack on a very belated, "Sir."

He goes still beneath her with an amused snort and Savannah can't tell if the Iceman is back or if he's just being his usual terse self as the last of the light goes.

She bites the words out. "We have a night vision scope, two pistols, and only one working rifle between the two of us. If the HKs find us, we're done for. Our only hope is covering 20 klicks of pretty damn open terrain tomorrow during the middle of the day when they can't lock on to our body heat and the heat shimmer off the dry lake bed will fuck with their optics. If I die, I am not going to die horny. Is that clear, Sir?"

"Crystal," he says, and she can hear in his voice that he's got that little smile on his face, the one he reserves only for her.

(The one he first wore that rat-fuck of a day when he let slip that she reminded him of an old friend. It's been on the tip of her tongue ever since to ask _who_, but with the Iceman, if he doesn't tell, _you don't ask_. Savannah's pretty sure it's do to with _Before_, which makes her all the more curious. He'll tell her if/when he wants her to know. She's 100% confident of that.)

She kisses him once more, hard, almost biting, then rears up, straddling his thighs and reaches for the front of his fatigues, but he bucks his hips, rolling them, and she can feel him crouching over her on all fours in the darkness.

"Weaver," he says, voice utterly matter of fact, "I'm not willing to take the risk of the last thing I ever ate being a 20 year old MRE."

It takes her discombobulated brain a moment to figure out what he means until he starts scooting backwards. Her legs slide up and bend and spread of their own accord and she didn't think she could get any wetter, but she just did.

"I am never making fun of you again for wearing a skirt," he says, hands sliding up and under and reaching for the snaps on her modesty flap.

"It's a kilt, Sir," Savannah automatically corrects him. "It's Scottish." It's an old game of theirs, the Iceman teasing her about her unique BDU. She made her first kilt and leggings from an old set of fatigues the day after she saw some poor guy die trying to run with his pants around his ankles during a surprise attack, and she vowed that she was never going to go like that.

She hasn't had even a PTA bath in a week and he dives in like it's cake and ice cream down there and she finds herself biting down on one fist to keep from screaming like a banshee while the other is tangled in his hair so that she can keep his head _right. goddamn. there._ as she comes, her entire body arching off the rocky, dirty floor, and it's not until after she falls limp and hears him sucking in ragged gasps that she realizes what she's done. "Sorry, Sir."

He chortles and over the hammering of her heart in her ears she makes out his muttering something about "smothered in pussy" and he climbs halfway back up before rolling them again.

_OH_.

Savannah wishes it weren't completely dark in here now, wishes they could make even a birthday candle's worth of light so that she could see the look in his eyes as she frees him, guides him to the place, and _slides_ down the length of him.

It's almost too much, she's almost too tender from just having come so hard, but the feel of him _there_, the bulk and the heat of him is _so_ right that nothing else matters.

She means to take it slowly, to draw it out, to make it last, but he clamps his hands around her hips and bucks back, hard, urging her on. He comes a split second before she does, a short, choked, "Oh, _Weaver_" on his lips just before the light bursts behind her eyes and she collapses on top of him.

"It's Savannah, Sir," she whispers into the hollow of his neck and breathes deeply of the smells of him, and sweat and sex, and the dirt and dust of this tiny, rocky cave. It's primordial and right in a way that everything else _After_ is wrong.

His hand comes up and strokes over her now ragged and disheveled braid, smoothing back a great many stray locks and tucking them neatly behind her ear. "And right now, it's Brad, not Sir." He's smiling again. She can hear it in his voice.

He's still hard in her. It seemed like he was going to go soft there for a moment or so, but she was wrong. She squeezes around him, liking the way it makes a hitch in his breathing. "I'll race you, Brad," she whispers in his ear before pushing-rocking back up, making him groan and swear softly under his breath. "Loser takes the first watch."

She feels his laugh before she hears it and then his first thrust takes her breath away.

**Author's Note:**

> Has a companion piece in [Don't Tell (Don't Ask)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/106563)


End file.
